


Infection

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 2100. The future is now. Everything humanity hoped to achieve, it's here. Perfect world, like all those young adult novels depicted. What could go wrong?</p>
<p>Never, ever ask that question. You almost always speak too soon.</p>
<p>Let's admit, Patrick was never the best at anything. A 20 year old in college studying music with law as his backup. He'd like to say he was good at guitar and singing, but who knows. In his opinion, he sounded like a dying horse and his guitar playing was subpar.</p>
<p>He was good at video games, though. That he knew. Especially those post-apocalyptic ones with the zombies and surviving the virus. If fighting the undead was what he had to do to save his life, whether it be in-game or in reality, then he'd survive at least five years.</p>
<p>But that'd never happen, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's 2100. The future is now. Everything humanity hoped to achieve, it's here. Perfect world, like all those young adult novels depicted. What could go wrong?

Never, ever ask that question. You almost always speak too soon.

Let's admit, Patrick was never the best at anything. A 20 year old in college studying music with law as his backup. He'd like to say he was good at guitar and singing, but who knows. In his opinion, he sounded like a dying horse and his guitar playing was subpar.

He was good at video games, though. That he knew. Especially those post-apocalyptic ones with the zombies and surviving the virus. If fighting the undead was what he had to do to save his life, whether it be in-game or in reality, then he'd survive at least five years.

But that'd never happen, right?

He was visiting home when it happened. He and his siblings were in the living room, exchanging jokes and watching whatever happened to be on the TV at the time. Their mother left to get dinner from the nearest sandwich shop, which was about fifteen minutes away. They suspected something was up when an hour had passed.

"Maybe she went to the store and started grocery shopping. You know how moms are," Patrick's sister shrugged, looking at something on her phone.

"Yeah, but our mom? She's never late," Patrick said, tapping the arm of the couch nervously.

"Calm down. I'll call her," Patrick's brother offered, whipping out his phone from his pocket. Patrick nodded as his brother dialled their mother's number.

"Heeey mom, where ya been? We're starving!" his brother laughed.

Suddenly, his expression changed from playful to a look of concern and pure terror.

"Wait, what?"

"What's going on?" Patrick asked, raising an eyebrow.

His brother raised his index finger at at him, signalling him to wait. "Mom, what are you talking about? Mom? Mom?!"

The line went dead, and all that could be heard was three monotonous beeps.

"Dude, what's going on?" Patrick asked again, his nails digging into the couch out of worry.

"She said... she said she loved us, not to go outside, and to stay safe."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know."

Just then, an alarm sounded from the speakers of the television set and whatever channel they were watching cut to the news. A man in full military uniform appeared on the screen, a solemn expression on his face. Clearing his throat, he began to speak.

"Citizens of America, we regret to inform you that there has been an outbreak of a serious virus on the east coast. This virus has been researched and kept under control for many years. It has been known to rot humans alive until they are a walking corpse, or, as it is more popularly known, a 'zombie'."

"Holy shit," Patrick breathed.

"Please stay in your homes and protect yourselves. Make sure you have enough food and water to last you the week. The military has been sent out to rid of this virus and all the infected. Be wary of others. Check for bites. Your loved ones may not be human anymore. Stay safe, and keep informed, America."

And suddenly, the world's like one of those video games.


	2. One Down

"This can't be real," Patrick's sister, Megan, shook her head.

"You don't just get a guy from the military to announce the outbreak of a deadly virus on national television as a joke," Patrick's brother, Kevin, argued. "That'd be sick. That'd land them in jail. Right, Patrick? Patrick?"

Patrick stared into space, completely tuned out of the conversation being held. He looked calm on the outside, but on the inside he was panicking more than he did the day before his final exams. What if this was real? What if they were in danger? He'd seen this in endless movies and played countless walking dead games, but those weren't real. With movies, you can stop watching, and with games you can respawn to where you last saved. But real life? That was a different story.

"Hello? Earth to Patrick?" Megan waved her hand frantically in front of Patrick's face, catching his attention.

"I think it's real, guys," Patrick mumbled, still a bit out of it.

"Jesus Christ, you too?" Megan voiced in disbelief, leaning back in her chair.

"I mean, think about it," Patrick began. "First our mom disappears for an hour, then when we call her she tells us to be safe, then a virus outbreak's all over the news? There's no way that can be a coincidence."

"See? Told you!" Kevin sneered, to which Megan rolled her eyes.

Megan sighed, drumming rhythmically on her thigh. "So what if it is real? That means we just lost our mom."

They fell silent as the realisation hit them. She was right. Their mother was dead, and if she wasn't, she was in danger. There was no way of telling, and checking would be risky.

"So... what happens now?" The question hung in the air.

Patrick thought about the fictional world. It seems like what the characters do to survive would be realistic, right? Scavenge for food, loot weapons, find shelter, things like that. Maybe, just maybe it could work.

Patrick shrugged. "We protect ourselves."

"Yeah, but how do we-" Kevin's sentence was interrupted by three loud knocks at the front door. "I'll get it," Kevin stood with a groan.

"Hey," Patrick stopped him. "Be careful."

Kevin nodded. "Right."

Kevin proceeded towards the door slowly. He peeked through the peephole, and he opened the door excitedly. "Mom!" he shouted, a bright smile on his face.

Megan and Patrick rushed to the door, and sure enough, their mother stood in the doorway, but she looked off. Here eyes were bright yellow, and her mouth hung open slightly.

"Mom?" Kevin repeated, and their mother didn't respond. She took two steps into the house, and stared lazily at Kevin.

All of a sudden, she flung her arms and gripped Kevin at the neck, squeezing tightly. Her mouth was wide as she pulled him closer. Kevin struggled against her, but she was far stronger than humanly possible. Patrick acted quickly. He ran back to the living room and grabbed the vase from the coffee table, then sprinted back to the door. Raising the vase high above his head, he brought it down with enough force to break it on her head. She fell to the ground, mouth still hanging open and completely lifeless.

"Oh my god, Patrick, look!" Patrick's head snapped up, looking to his sister, who had called him. She had a hand clasped over her mouth and another pointing to Kevin. He adverted his gaze to his brother, who was holding his neck and, terrifyingly, had blood oozing out of that spot and pouring onto his hand and shirt.

"Fuck, did she bite you?" Patrick asked in a panicked tone. "Is it... is it bad?" Kevin asked, looking to his siblings.

"She bit you, didn't she?" Megan breathed, hand still over her mouth.

"I think," Kevin mumbled. "Does that mean I'm... you know?"

Patrick's heart stopped for a moment. No, he can't be. He had already lost his mother, he can't lose his brother, too. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and he blinked to chase them away.

"Just kill me now. I don't wanna die like, well, like one of them," Kevin said solemnly, gesturing to the body on the floor.

"No way," Patrick shook his head. "I can't kill you too."

Kevin groaned. "Just do it, Patrick, before I lose control of what I do."

"No."

"Yes."

" _No_."

"I'll do it."

Both boys look to Megan, who's teary-eyed and sniffling, yet trying her best to look strong. "I'll do it, if you're not going to," she offered. "I'd rather not risk him turning on us and trying to kill us."

"Thank you," Kevin said with gratitude.

Megan left for the kitchen and returned with the chef's knife. She stepped up to her brother, knife shaky in her hand.

"I'm gonna miss you," she whispered, wiping away tears.

"I'm gonna miss you too, sis. And you, Patrick. It's been fun, even if you two are giant pains in my ass," he says with a genuine laugh as a last attempt to be humorous, and it works. The three laugh off the sad moment, then it's quiet again.

Megan hesitantly raised the knife to his chest, and her hand was so unstable she almost dropped it. Then, in one swift movement, she closed her eyes and buried the knife in his heart. He screamed in pain for a few seconds, then dropped to the floor next to their mother's body.

It's quiet again. Quieter than usual. Neither of them speak, neither of them _want_ to speak, all they can do is let tears stream from their eyes.

"What do we do now?"

The same question. The same old question no one really knows how to answer. Patrick thought for a minute. What should they do? Start packing? Find weapons? Fight off other infected people?

"We should probably do something with them. The bodies, I mean," Patrick croaked. "Come on."

Patrick hoisted his brother up from under his arms, and Megan did the same with their mother. They dragged them to the back door and into the backyard, dumping them in the middle of the grass.

"Can you get the gas and the lighter for me?" Patrick requested.

Megan nodded, and returned to the house to retrieve them. She came back, jug of gasoline and lighter in hand. She handed them both to him, and Patrick proceeded to douse them in fuel. He then ignited the lighter, and tossed it onto them. They lit up in flames as the two watched. The smell of burning flesh hit them like a car collision, but Megan was the only one to be bothered by it. She ran to the edge of the yard and vomited, coughing and choking. Patrick went and helped her up, bringing her inside. She sat on the couch as he went back outside to make sure the flame didn't get out of hand. It was a while before the fire snuffed itself out. Patrick went inside, wiping the ash from his hands off on his jeans.

Sighing, he said, "I think we should start packing."


	3. One Left

Patrick hoped that this was all a dream. He hoped he would wake up to his brother pushing him off the bed so that he'd get up and eat the food their mother made. He hoped that he wasn't in the middle of the apocalypse, that it was just some wild dream he'd tell his family at the dinner table tonight.

But there was none of that, and here he was, packing necessities in his backpack in case of emergency.

He went over the survivalist checklist. Clothes - check. Food - check. Bottles of water - check. First aide kit - check. Lighters - check. All he needed now was weapons.

There was a baseball bat in his brother's room, so that he could take, and of course there were the knives in the kitchen. There was also an old chainsaw in the basement that his dad had before he passed, but he had no idea how to use it and he'd rather not lose his head trying to learn.

That reminds him, his dad kept a collection of various tools in the basement. Regular saws, hammers, hatchets, wrenches, things of the like. Some of those could come in handy.

He visits his brother's room to take the wooden baseball bat off the wall. It's a quick trip; he feared he might get sick if he stayed in there and saw its emptiness any longer than a second. He then ventured downstairs and opened the door to the basement, looking for those old tools.

The toolbox he found under a bunch of boxes, and the hatchet he found in the corner. He thought about taking the entire toolbox with him, but it'd probably be a bit too heavy to carry. So he opened the toolbox, sifting through its contents.

There was the hammer, the saw, and the pliers, along with some other objects. The hammer would be a good melee weapon, but then again, the baseball bat had the same effect. The saw, he thought, wouldn't be as useful unless it was spinning like a chainsaw, otherwise the teeth could get stuck in something or someone while fighting and would take time he most likely wouldn't have to pull it out. The pliers, well, they're obviously not a weapon. But they could be handy in some situations, in case they needed to break a lock or cut something way too thick for scissors or knives. And then there was the hatchet. It was lightweight and the edge was sharp, which was optimal for clean chopping or slicing. He could use this, and the pliers.

Patrick laughed at himself. He was really doing this. He was really weighing out his options in terms of _weapons_ to _kill_ people. Never in his life did he think he would actually have to face something like this.

Something knocked at the door, and his heart rate jumped for a moment before he realised it was only Megan.

"Hey, I packed some stuff. I've got food, water. clothes, blankets, flashlights, some of the knives from the kitchen, things like that. Is that good?"

Patrick nodded. "We need some other stuff, though. We've got the basics. We're probably gonna need rope, tarp, that kinda stuff, but we could find those along the way."

"Along the way?" Megan questioned.

"Yeah. If we leave here and have to go out on our own, we're going to need to scavenge things. Ropes can get you down from high places or be used in traps, tarp can be used for pitching tents. Plus, if we come across a gear store we can find some bulletproof vests, cargo pants, steel-toed boots, cool armour things. So not only would we look cool but we'll be protected _and_ we'll have extra pockets."

Megan narrowed her eyes at Patrick in suspicion. "Patrick, you _never_ go outside. How do you know so much?"

He smiled. "Because I never go outside."

She rolled her eyes. "Anything else I should know? To survive this apocalypse or whatever this is..."

"You probably want to wear something lightweight. Like jeans, but not the ones with the bottoms that you can trip on. Shirts are whatever but you wanna wear long sleeves so they don't get very far if they try to bite you. I suppose you might wanna keep your hair up so it doesn't get in the way. And wear sneakers, or if you have them, hiking boots. We'll most likely be running a lot," Patrick rambled, saying anything that comes to mind.

"Is that all?"

"All I can think of."

"Right," she nodded. "I'm gonna go keep packing. Call me if you need me."

Patrick continued to pack, himself. He brought the pliers and the hatchet into the living room and stuffed them in his bag with the rest of his items.

He slumped on the couch, legs crossed and baseball bat in hand. He felt ready for anything, but at the same time, anxious and not really looking forward to whatever life had in store.

He was so lost in thought he nearly forgot the TV was still on.

The same alarm from before rang loudly, and the news came on again. This time, a different military official walked into the frame, and his expression was a cross between somber and sad and absolutely terrified. He let out a shaky breath before speaking.

"America, we tried our best. Most of our armed forces are... lost, to say the least. The virus is spreading, and we can't control it. We suggest you move to your nearest military base, if possible. If not, we're terribly sorry. Be safe," and just like that, the TV cut to the previous channel.

Megan came running down the stairs a moment later. "What was that? What'd I miss?"

"The military can't keep it under control," Patrick explained. "It's spreading, and by the sound of it, it's going pretty fast."

"Ugh, _crap_ ," Megan groaned.

_Knock, knock, knock._ There was banging at the door, and they both stared at it as if it was some ungodly creature. After what just happened, there was no way either of them was opening that door.

_Knock, knock knock, knock knock, knock._

The banging continued, and it was more inconsistent. That, and it sounded like it was happening at different parts of the house.

Patrick musters up his courage, and walked towards the door. Megan grabbed his wrist firmly, and looked at him like he was crazy.

"What the hell are you doing?" she seethed through her teeth, trying to pull him back in. "You don't know who or what's out there."

"I'm not going to open the door, I'm just gonna look through the peephole," Patrick promised, and Megan glared at him for a moment before letting him go.

He proceeded cautiously towards the door, closing one eye and peeking with the other. What he saw was not at all pleasant.

Outside, at least a dozen people - no, a dozen _infected_ people - banged at the door and windows, trying to break themselves in. He jumped backwards when one hit the door right where he was leaning.

"What is it?" Megan asked in a hushed tone, noticing Patrick's fright.

"We gotta get out of here."

An arm broke through the window, shattering glass on the linoleum floor beneath it and getting caught in the blinds. Groaning could be heard from the multiple Infected outside.

"Come on," Patrick grabbed his backpack and his baseball bat, and Megan grabbed her duffle bag. They sprinted to the garage and all but threw their things in the backseat of Patrick's car, They got in, strapped their seat belts, and Patrick clicked the button on the garage door opener.

As soon as the door opened a foot high, Infected people started squeezing their way through the gap. A few more feet, and Infected was all they could see for miles. Bloody hands beat at every angle of his car, and the exit was blocked. The only way to get out was to, well, drive through them.

Patrick hit the gas and the Infected flew to the side, over and under his car. It was a bumpy ride, to say the least.

He ignored the sickening crunch of bones and bodies under his wheels and drove off, into a road of wandering Infected whose attention had been caught by the movement of his car.

Some chased after them, but they were slow, and thank _God_ for that. Some looked like they ran 40 miles per hour, which was freaky as hell. They eventually made it away from them, and out of Chicago entirely.

They were down a desolate highway when the worst possible thing happened. Patrick's car slowed to a stop, and the engine stopped. A loud _ping ping ping_ was heard, and a light flashed behind the steering wheel.

"No, no, _no_ ," Patrick mumbled, slamming his hands on the dashboard.

"Are we out of gas?" Megan asked with panic evident in her voice.

"Yes," Patrick replied, holding his head in his hands.

Megan cursed under her breath. She looked around, through the passenger window, the front and back windows. "There aren't any Infected people around here, it doesn't look like," she pointed out. "We can walk and look for a place to hide out."

"Good call," Patrick agreed, and they take their bags out the backseat and hike down the road.

They walk for hours down that same road. Then they notice something in the distance.

"Hey, does that look like a person to you?" Patrick asked, pointing at the figure.

"I don't know. Could be," Megan shrugged.

They walked a little closer, trying to see what it really was. And, just their luck, it was definitely not human.

"Oh my god, it's one of them."

The thing came running at them at top speed, and Patrick readied his bat. Closer and closer it came, and then _wham_ , he swings and bashes its head in. It makes a croaky whining sound, then it crumples in a heap on the ground.

Patrick's heart beat rapidly in his chest, threatening to put him into cardiac arrest. Megan was just about in the same condition.

"Let's hope that's the only one for miles," Patrick said, completely breathless. Megan nodded in agreement.

Then, a clicking noise. Several clicking noises. _A thousand_ clicking noises. The two turn behind them, and an entire hoard of Infected are inching their way towards them. These are different, though, not like your typical zombie. They were still rotting from the inside out, but their faces were wide and flat, like someone had flattened their faces out with a rolling pin. They had no eyes, only mouths with rotting teeth and tongues that clicked like mad. The clicking, he figured, was a way of seeing, which added to how frightening these things were.

"God _dammit_."

Patrick and Megan broke out into a sprint, high-tailing it down the road. There was nothing for quite some time, until...

"Over there!" Megan pointed to a building nearly out-of-sight, which looked a bit like a church. "We can hide in there!"

The church was getting closer, closer, they were halfway there and their lungs stung from lack of oxygen. They could make, they can make it, they _will_ make it-

" _Fuck_ ," Megan toppled over, holding her ankle with a pained expression on her face. She breathed heavily, groaning with every breath.

"My ankle, it's twisted."

"Here, I'll help you up," Patrick offered. He went to lift her by the shoulders, but she stopped him.

"No, I'll just slow you down," she shook her head.

"What are you talking about? We can make it, we're right there-"

"Patrick, just do what I say," she hissed. "Those things are fast, with you carrying my weight they'll catch up to us soon. Just take my stuff and go."

"But-"

" _GO!_ "

Patrick reluctantly took her duffle bag, and legged it the rest of the way to the church. He looked back, and god he wished he didn't. There his sister was, a quarter of a mile away, being trampled over by dozens of Infected, screaming her lungs out.

He hurried inside, trying to ignore her screams. He quickly shut the wooden doors behind him, then placed his baseball bat through the large handles to further lock it. Finally catching his breath, he turned around, and was met with the muzzle of a gun.


	4. Ally

Patrick stared cross-eyed at the gun pointed directly between his eyes. Instinctively, he raised his tremulous arms above his head.

"Name?" the voice behind the gun requested. Patrick looked up to see a man about half a foot taller than him, hair wild and curly and blue eyes surveying him carefully. 

" _Name?_ " he repeated, shoving the gun further in his face.

"Patrick. Patrick Stump," Patrick responded apprehensively. His gaze shifted between the muzzle and the man's eyes.

"Did you get bit?" he pointed to Patrick's chest with the tip of the gun, and Patrick looked down.

He definitely wasn't bleeding - he would've felt it. He patted the area and felt no pain. He shook his head.

"It's someone else's blood," he realised in shock.

The curly-haired man looked skeptical. "Show me."

Patrick undid the buttons of his shirt, and showed him the spot where the blood had soaked him. He was clean and free of bites. The man nodded, and lowered his gun into a holster strapped to his leg. Patrick redid his buttons, then dropped his bags in one of the benches.

"I'm Joe Trohman," he introduced himself, holding a hand out to Patrick. Patrick shook it.

"Where'd you come from?" Joe asked.

"Chicago," Patrick replied.

"Wow," Joe breathed. "You came a long way."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Where are we?"

"Evanston," Joe answered. "I hope you didn't walk this whole way."

Patrick shrugged. "Just about. Our car broke down around seven or eight miles back."

"'Our'? You came here with someone?" Joe questioned.

"Yeah," Patrick sighed, sitting on the bench next to his things. "My sister. She got caught in the middle of those things. I had to leave her behind."

"Ah man, that sucks," Joe said. He sat backwards on the bench in front of Patrick, facing him. "I've got no idea how my family's doing. I just ran here from school and picked up a few things on the way. I tried calling them, but they haven't picked up at all."

"School?"

"Northwestern University. Just started a year or so ago. I'm majoring in science and medical work, and minoring in music," Joe explained.

"No way, you're into music, too?" Patrick smiled.

"Yeah, I play guitar. What do you play?"

"Drums, guitar, piano, bass, and some others. I sing too, but not that well," Patrick shrugged.

"Aw come on, give yourself some credit," Joe nudged Patrick's knee with his fist, and Patrick shook his head.

"Nah, I'm really not that good."

"Sing something," Joe requested.

"No, no, no."

"Come oooon, I won't judge. Promise."

Patrick sighed. "Fine." He breaks into the first verse of Smells Like Teen Spirit, and Joe's jaw drops.

"Was it bad?" Patrick asked hesitantly, cringing. 

"No, dude, that was great. Isn't that Nirvana? The band from, like, fifty years ago?"

"Yeah, you listen to them?"

"Hell yeah, they're awesome." 

Patrick only knew this guy for about twenty minutes, but he knew they'd get along just fine.

"So you really think my singing is okay?" Patrick asked.

"More than okay, dude," Joe began, "You're like, if the soul of Elvis Costello combined with Kurt Cobain's and was sucked into one body. You're talented as hell."

"Thanks," Patrick beamed.

"No problem, dude. It's the truth."

There was a bit of an awkward silence afterwards. Patrick searched for some conversation starters, but couldn't think of any. Joe spared him that responsibility by asking, "Do you have anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Yeah, sure," Patrick unzipped a compartment of his backpack, pulling out the first aide and weapons to get to the food at the bottom. He grabbed a bottle of water and some chips and handed it to Joe, who accepted it gratefully.

He noticed just how hungry he was when Joe began to eat. He had water and chips, himself, and it felt as if he hadn't eaten in years.

Patrick stared out the stain glass window above the altar. At some point, it had begun to rain and the sun had set. There was an old clock below the window, but the hands weren't moving and looked like it hasn't in years.

"What time is it?" Patrick wondered.

Joe pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked. "It's almost nine."

"Already?" Patrick stated, "I thought it was like, six."

Joe shrugged. "Time flies when you're running from dead people."

At that, Patrick laughed, and it was the first time in hours that he truly, genuinely laughed.   
Joe laughed with him.

"Yo, dude, you tired?" 

"A little," Patrick responded. It wasn't _quite_ the truth, but he didn't want to sleep and risk something happening to him.

"You look more than just a little tired, man," Joe pointed out. "You should catch some sleep. I'll watch out for those things, and I'll wake you up if something happens or if I get tired. Sound good?"

Patrick nodded, standing up. "Is there somewhere in here that I can sleep?"

"None that I know of," Joe answered.

He sighed. Looks like he'd have to be sleeping on the bench. But beggars can't be choosers, right?

He tugged a blanket out of the duffle, then stretched out on the bench, covering himself. He used his bags as a pillow, and as soon as he shut his eyes, he was snoring. 


	5. Trip

Sleep wasn't exactly a breeze for Patrick. He had dreams that were more like reoccurring nightmares that woke him up in cold sweats every hour or so. He decided he'd just stay awake. After all, he's run on less sleep before.

Joe slept soundly on the bench in front of him after Patrick announced he'd be staying up. He was a trooper; it was four in the morning before Patrick woke up for the last time. He figured Joe's probably been in the same situation he has, what with studying and writing long essays in college.

He laughed as he realised _hey, at least I don't have to worry about college anymore_.

He stared at the ceiling. An apocalypse is happening outside and he's relieved the stress of _college_ isn't on his shoulders anymore.

He heard the moans and groans of the undead outside, and he groaned, himself. Was this really _necessary_? At all? Did the world _really_ need to contain a virus that created living dead? He knew the world wasn't fair, but _seriously_?

The sun rose slowly, from an orangish yellow hue to a clear blue sky. Joe stirred in his spot and rose, slowly and groggily. He shifted in his seat to look at Patrick, and gave him a look as if to say, "Are you good?"

Patrick half-nodded, and Joe turned back to the front of the church. "You know, we used to go here, my family and I. This place used to be a Christian church, but no one used it for a while, so a Jewish guy and his family ran the place as a synagogue. Our family wasn't exactly Jewish in terms of religion, but more in culture. So after my brother's bar mitzvah we stopped going here. But I remember my brother and I pranking other people here while our parents were busy praying. Let me tell you, we've had some pretty funny adventures in this place. I'm pretty sure there's still a scorch mark on the floor from the time we set the kohen's pants on fire with a candle," he chuckled.

"Man, I miss them so much."

Patrick placed a reassuring hand on Joe's shoulder. "Hey, they might be alive. You never know."

Joe shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't get my hopes up. Besides, they would've called me by now." He shrugged. "It's whatever, though. Bigger problems we gotta worry about. Do you know how to shoot a gun?"

Patrick blinked at the sudden subject change. "Do what?" he asked, not processing the question completely.

"Shoot a gun. Knowing how to fight close-up is useful, but you gotta know how to get 'em from afar, too. You know, to clear the road when you're travelling," Joe explained.

"Oh," Patrick replied simply. "No, I don't."

"I can teach you. I stocked up. I got loads of ammo, holsters, knives and, like, five or six guns on the way here. We can open one of the windows a little and practice on 'em."

He thought for a moment. "Won't the noise attract more of them?"

"Ah, come on. What kind of survivalist would I be if I didn't pick up silencers?" Joe looked at Patrick proudly.

"One that forgot to take food?" Patrick retaliated with a sly smile, and Joe rolled his eyes jokingly.

"So you wanna learn or not?"

"Yeah sure," Patrick agreed, and Joe got up an walked over to another bench. Patrick followed.

There, Joe had laid out three handguns and two large guns, two daggers and a flamethrower. Boxes of ammo and ammo belts were also present. Beside them were holsters that could be strapped around the thigh, arm or clipped onto a belt loop, and could contain handguns or knives. There were also straps that connected to the larger guns, to sling around the shoulder. When Joe said he stocked up, he really _did_ stock up.

"How'd you carry all this stuff?" was the first question Patrick thought to ask.

"Dude, there's this new invention called the 'bag'. It's so cool. It holds shit for you, so you don't have to," Joe said sarcastically.

"Ha _ha_ , you're sooo funny. So tell me how these things work."

"Alright," he picked up a handgun. "There's a button on the side of the grip, here," he pointed to the side of the handle at the button. "You press that, and it releases the magazine," a plastic container ejected from the bottom of the handle. "You take the ammo, put in the bullets one by one, then put the magazine back in," the container slid back in place with a click. "Then you've got your silencer, which you put in the muzzle here," he placed a cylindrical object in the muzzle. "There's a safety lever here, at the top near the slide. Hey, can you open that window back there?"

Patrick nodded and opened the window next to the door while Joe knelt in front of it. 

"So you disengage the safety here, then pull the slide back to cock it," he slide his hand over the top of the gun and a small snap was heard. "So once you've done that, just aim and..."

Joe studied an Infected about thirty feet away, aiming the gun. He then pulled the trigger and the bullet, without a sound, zoomed and hit it square in its forehead. It died on impact, falling to the ground.

"That's how you do it," he concluded. "So now, you try."

Grabbing a different handgun, Patrick followed the instructions (maybe with a little difficulty) and aimed at another Infected out the window. He squinted at it, his hands a bit shaky. Squeezing the trigger, the bullet flew and hit just below its left shoulder. It stumbled a bit, then fell over, motionless.

"Nice job, dude," Joe clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick smiled.

"'Nother round."

He practiced with the rest of the bullets in the cartridge, then another round. Patrick had missed two or three, but it was hardly comparable to the twelve he hit spot on. Joe encouraged him the whole time, whether it had been low cheering or a pat on the back. Deciding it'd be vital to save the rest of the ammo for later, they closed the window.

A low rumble sounded in the distance, puzzling the two.

"You hear that?" Patrick asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sounds like a car or something."

They stared out the window for a while, looking for the source of the sound. There, past the endless Infected was a Hummer-looking vehicle. It came closer and closer, and a grin spread across Joe's face.

"Oh, dude, I think I know who that is," Joe said excitedly. He skipped over to his supplies and packed them into a bag, throwing it over his shoulder and sprinting over to the door.

"Wait, who? Dude, what are you doing?" Patrick asked frantically.

Joe removed Patrick's baseball bat from the door handles, swinging the doors open. Thankfully, there were no Infected there, but the Hummer from down the road.

The passenger window rolled down slowly to reveal the driver on the other side. From what Patrick could see, the driver was a man with brown combed-over hair, a scruffy orange beard and large muscles with tattoos for days. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He gave Joe a bright smile.

"Get in, loser, we're going shopping."

Patrick swore his voice was the most unexpected thing he's ever heard. It was light and high, higher than a guy with his looks would have.

"Andy!" Joe shouted. "Patrick, dude, get your stuff so we can go."

"Okay?" It came out as more of a question, but Patrick gathered his things anyway and got in the backseat of the car while Joe sat in the passenger's seat.

"Dude, where've you been?" Joe asked with a smile.

"Man, I was in Chicago when you called yesterday. Shit was crazy, getting here. But I called you up earlier and you didn't answer."

"Sorry, dude. My phone's been dead since midnight. It's 2100 and that place doesn't have outlets, imagine that."

Patrick coughed awkwardly, twiddling his thumbs. Joe looked to him like he forgot he was there.

"Oh, bro, I almost forgot. This is Patrick. Patrick, this is Andy Hurley. He works at a record shop in Chicago," Joe introduced. "He also plays wicked drums."

"Hey, Patrick," Andy waved through the rearview mirror.

"Hey," Patrick replied.

"Andy, this guy has the best singing voice, no lie," Joe told him.

"Really? Hey, can you sing for me?" Andy asked Patrick, and Patrick shrunk back in his seat.

"Um, I'd rather not, right now," Patrick responded.

"No pressure, man. Maybe later?" Andy asked respectfully.

"Sure."

"So where are we going?" Joe turned to Andy.

"Dunno, probably gonna find somewhere better to stay than a church," Andy replied.

"There's a military base in Granite City. We can go there," Patrick suggested.

"That's like, all the way across the state, though," Joe pointed out.

Andy shrugged. "It could be a good idea. We'll try it." 

He pulled out his phone from his pocket and unlocked it, placing it on the dock above the radio. He went to the GPS feature and entered 'Granite City, IL' in the search bar. A map appeared, along with their current location and highlighted directions. A status in the bottom left corner indicated they had 294 miles to go, which was five hours at the least. Sure, it wasn't much, but who knows what could happen down the road?


	6. Base

The first hour was uneventful. Joe and Andy caught up on whatever was going on before while Patrick only added a few words to the conversation. The road was pretty barren compared to where they were before, in terms of Infected or people in general. 

The second hour passed and they made a pit stop at a gas station. The place looked like it was ransacked; doors wide open and most of the food was taken. The gas pumps still worked, though. Joe kept served as a lookout and Patrick was told to take what was left in the station. He hesitated, but he reasoned that other people most likely weren't going to be paying for things anyway.

The third hour came and went without incident. They were in the city now and it appeared that everyone had left. Looked like shit had hit the fan, too. Every other building had broken glass and shelves or furniture was knocked over. They had to take a few detours due to the amount of crashed cars in the road and run over some Infected here and there, but nothing life threatening.

The fourth hour consisted of a lighter atmosphere. Patrick felt a little more comfortable with joining the conversation. Andy and Joe made a few really-inappropriate-yet-appropriate post apocalyptic jokes, and Patrick joined in. He would point out the window at an Infected and go, "Hey, is that Jerry from high school? Man, I heard he had a disease but I didn't think it was _that_ bad." Every now and again he would say some really stupid joke such as, "Where do zombies go swimming? The Dead Sea," and they'd all cringe to the high heavens. But the fact that they were joking around in a situation like this was lessening the tension.

The fifth hour was annoying. Everywhere you turned, Infected were there. Driving through them was like driving on a bumpy road. But eventually they reached a part where there weren't many. A few more minutes of driving occurred, then smack in front of them was a gate and behind it stood a five story, square building. 

Two men came marching out the front door of the building, full military garb with guns slung behind their backs and all. The three exited the car and approached them.

"Hey, we're here to-" Joe began, but was cut off by one of the men.

"We're sorry, but this base is full, you'll have to go elsewhere."

They looked at the men, dumbstruck. Andy's eyebrows furrowed together. "There must be some room for -"

"Sir, this base is _full_ ," the other repeated. "As are the others that we've contacted. You can relocate to any of the neighbouring states, but Scott Air Force, Rock Island Arsenal, Great Lakes Training and ours - Camp Price - are occupied and cannot contain more."

"Are you kidding me?" Joe raised his voice. Andy gave him a warning look, but he ignored it.

"You're just going to make people fend for themselves out here? Is that how all those people," he pointed to nowhere in particular, "Got like that? You left them because your base was ' _full_ '?"

"Joe, keep your cool," Andy muttered.

"That's _bullshit_ ," Joe pushed at the fence, startling the men. They raised their guns, pointing them straight at him.

"Please leave, we don't want there to be any conflict," one of the men said.

"Joe come _on_ ," Andy grabbed the collar of Joe's shirt, pulling him backwards with resistance from the latter. Joe shrugged him off, walking to the car himself. Andy followed, as did Patrick, back to their original spots in the car. Once they were in, Andy spun the car around and drove down the same road they came.

"What were you thinking, Joe? You can't just go around preaching at people with guns in their hands," Andy shook his head exasperatedly.

"Dude, it's ridiculous! They've got a huge ass building with room for like, seven thousand people and they can't accept _three_. Can you imagine all the-"

"You idiot, do you know how many people live in Illinois?" Andy interjected.

"What?" Joe raised an eyebrow.

"Do you know the population Illinois?" Andy repeated.

Joe opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He sat in thought for a moment. "No."

"At least thirteen million or more people live - or lived - here," Patrick added.

"And if those military bases hold only around seven thousand people, as you said, there's no way _everyone_ would be able to fit in one. There's only four bases in this state, do you really think thirteen million people can fit in all of them?" Andy questioned.

Joe sighed. "No," he mumbled.

"Exactly," Andy stated. "Keep your anger under control from now on."

Joe nodded in defeat, leaning his head against the window. 

"So are we really gonna go out of state?" Patrick asked.

"I'd rather we not. It's better to stay in a place you know well, for safety reasons," Andy replied.

Patrick nodded in agreement. 

Miles and miles down, they saw something unexpected. A car, driving down the highway in the other direction. 

"Do you think they're heading to the base?" Joe wondered, motioning to the car across from them.

"Maybe, maybe not. They could be going their own way," Andy shrugged.

"They look like they're stopping, though," Patrick noted, and they were. 

The silver SUV pulled over, and a window rolled down as a hand waved them over. Andy decided to stop near them, parking the car right across from the SUV.

Out stepped a man with short, fluffy brown hair. He wore a vest over a dress shirt and old, tattered skinny jeans, like some ridiculous Beatles/Punk Rock crossover.

"Do you need help?" Andy asked.

"Yeah," the man coughed. "My friend's ankle is hurt and we need directions to the military base the radio is talking about."

Andy shook his head. "Sorry, man. Apparently all the bases in this state are full. We just left from one because they couldn't let us in."

The man cursed under his breath, then turned to the open window of his car. He said something to someone in the back seat, and a muffled groan came from inside the car. He turned to face Andy again, exhaling deeply. 

"Is there anywhere else we can go to help him?" A hospital? Clinic? Something?" he asked, worry and panic evident in his voice.

"As far as I know, everything's shut down," Andy answered. 

The man leaned back, head in hands. He was obviously disappointed and exhausted. 

A slam came from Joe's door as he exited the car. "Your friend's ankle is hurt, right? I was majoring in med in college. I could help," Joe offered.

"Really?" the man's voice perked in hope.

"Yeah," he nodded. He moved to Patrick's door, tapping on the window. As Patrick rolled it down, he asked, "Dude, don't you have a first aid kit somewhere in there?"

"Yeah, yeah of course," Patrick responded, then turned to his bag of supplies, fishing out the first aid kit. He handed it to Joe.

"I'm not sure if it has anything for sprains, though," Patrick admitted as Joe sifted through the contents of the box.

"Yeah, we've got something," Joe nodded. "Can I see your friend?"

The man hurried to open the back door of his car. On the other side of the backseat sat a man with brown hair and large glasses, legs propped up on the seat next to him. His eyes were red and puffy, as if he'd been crying. Another man with messy hair sat in front, one leg bouncing rapidly. 

"Hey, dude, can you tell me which ankle's hurt?" Joe asked.

"The left one," he croaked out, tapping the leg. Joe nodded and rolled up the pant leg (with some difficulty, because _man_ those jeans were tight). He examined the guy's ankle and it was, in fact, sprained. He found an ace wrap in the box, wrapping it around the ankle tightly. The guy hissed through his teeth in pain, and Joe sincerely apologised. He then put an air cast over the ace wrap, pulling the straps tight in place.

"Is that comfortable? Is it stable enough?" Joe questioned.

"Yeah," the guy nodded. "Not bad. Thank you."

"No problem," Joe waved it off.

"Hey, um, since we don't have anywhere to go, can we just follow you guys?" The guy from before asked.

"Well, we don't really know where we're going either, but we have room for some more," Joe decided. "The more people we have, the better."

"Thank you guys so much," the guy said graciously, shaking Joe and Andy's hands. "I'm Ryan, by the way. That's Brendon, and up front is Spencer."

"I'm Joe. This is Andy, and over there is Patrick," Joe introduced. Andy and Patrick waved to Ryan. 

"Glad to meet you guys," Ryan replied.

They exchanged a few ideas, such as where they could go or what they could do. Ryan seemed to be the responsible one, and Brendon was the energetic one, and they were pretty sure that he'd be skipping around or something if he weren't in the condition he was in. Spencer was pretty much quiet, except for when something sounded like a bad idea or being the voice of reasoning. They finally decided that finding a house, preferably one that wasn't trashed or in use, would be the first priority. The rest would be figured out once they got there.

Afterwards, everyone returned to their respective vehicles. Andy drove in front and Ryan's group trailed behind, and they were off in search of a place to stay.


End file.
